Sensibly Sinister
by Loonynamelass
Summary: A one-shot series of villain analyses. Internal, somewhat sadistic. Tom, Lucius & Dolores. ...To Tom, the world has very specific problems, but he's more than happy to eradicate them. A perfect, sharp, subtle world is within his reach.
1. HighDefinition

Sensibly Sinister 1: High Definition

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**_Disclaimer_**_: Joanne K. Rowling is the creator of the universe Harry Potter. It is not completely understood how such a feat is humanly possible, but upon extensive examination of her as well as Olympic athletes we have come to this conclusions: they are all aliens._

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The Slytherin common room was perfect.

Hogwarts was perfect, really.

No, nevermind that. Tom's forehead creased and brow narrowed. No, he corrected. Almost perfect. Extraordinarily close, true, but not quite there.

Better to stay small, for now. Bigger things could come later, but it was always better to not get ahead of oneself. The Slytherin Common room, which was perfect as long as it wasn't disproven as so.

The torches' firelight flickers in sharp relief against the stone walls, without blunting itself around the entire room, and without blinding the viewers. Sharp, but subtle. As were the finely fitted stones that comprised the elegant walls... One could almost miss them, but the fine line that deems the description "almost" necessary is unbelievably present. Consider, then, a finely structured figure leaning against the rough wall, with brows sharp under a subtle handsome face, movements sharp but subtle... How he relished that combination of words- even the sounds themselves. Sharp, such a gentle caressing of air between your tongue and roof, and subtle, in which the control snaps and it strikes your roof so quickly before retreating that once can scarcely believe that anything transpired.

Was it merely coincidental that such two English words put together, "_shhhps't!l..._", was Parseltongue for danger? Or that "_pffk!t..._" was a synonym, simply more difficult to pronounce? Eh. Such queries are mere distractions from real work. Subtle, but not at all sharp. Such wouldn't do, not at all. Forget that he mentioned it.

It did help that a perfect person was in Slytherin. But it was not only one, Tom contested. Slytherins themselves were, almost by function, perfect.

Well, at least, the females were. How he relished them. There was something altogether satisfying, like wiping red stains off of a knife with a finger, in the sharp but subtle combination of feminine wile and Slytherin ambition. They made for suitable nemeses- and thrilling allies.

Subtle eyes- sharp lashes and piercing gaze. Smooth lips- razor incisors and muscled jaw. Gentle hands- rough nails and washable blood. Quiet voice- cutting tone and menacing theme. Silky locks- whiplash strike and violent strand. Soft demeanor- dark intention and wicked way. Associating with such intriguing specimen of this premium brand was consistently fantastic... Of course, some of them were hopelessly unattractive or unintelligent, but such were often so undeserving that Tom discounted their Slytherin-hood. These leftovers would make effective servants and Death Eaters, of course; but Tom just hated those- or at least, most of them.

He did like the way they so reverently spoke his name, though. Voldemort. The end was the finest part. The unpronounced "T" of the French word had to be one of Tom's greatest masterpieces, symbolic of his hate for the overly common and completely blunt "Tom" he had been burdened with since birth.

Flight from death, Tom mused, smiling. How utterly fitting. The ring on his finger was just another beautiful, sharp, subtle ornament on the perfections that he could place.

Death was always sharp and subtle in its progression, and Tom would be the one to know. Avada Kedavra, whispered or shouted, the effect was the same- rather than a stupidly hazy spell that some produced, the Killing Curse was a clean, straight line that sliced through the air entirely soundlessly- while still drawing every eye to it. There were other methods, of course, cutlery being Tom's favorite. Small, pocket-sized (occasionally belt-sized instead)- but always producing the same effect on victims. Wide eyes, with their sharp and entirely not subtle veins visible- pale palors, which spread across their bodies and sucked the beauty out of their faces. Dribbles of red liquid that remained sharp and subtle even when their owner was completely ineffectual.

Conversely, many things were not sharp at all, and this was another aspect of life that Tom's unfortunately sound and spectacularly perceptive eyesight did not fail to acknowledge. There was Albus Dumbledore, to begin- bold and entirely disregarding subtlety. The "light," those who barreled through lives for only the sake of "happiness," "freedom"... All distracted from the elegance of the sharp and subtle. Morals banned the beautiful, simplicity shunned the subtle, obtuseness obstructed the interesting, and high-minded principles neglected nature. Muggles really disturbed him- they happily destroyed the Earth that wizards unfortunately had to share with them for no reason other than selfishness, their weapons were loud and messy, and their dull minds were always far too fast to assume. Mudbloods were also wrapped up in this vicious cycle of hideousness- their causes for equality caused them to disprespect the delicate heirarchies; the confusion of their mixed families brought stress, not sharp or subtle in the slightest; their ignorance of social standards mucked up the eccentric but devout and thorough purifying of magical blood.

The Slytherin Common Room was perfect.

For Dumbledore, for Mudbloods, for Muggles, and for non-Slytherins, Hogwarts was not.

But if Tom had something to say about it, it would be.

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_A/N: I haven't written a new one-shot in a while, something my friend AJ was quick to comment on, so I figured I might as well when this little idea popped into my mind. Most of this is speculation, of course._

_I would like to credit PlonkerOnDaLoose and Flaignhan for inspiring me with their eloquent writings on the demented mind of teenage Tom Riddle._

_Please click the no longer green button and review._


	2. Righteous and Rich

Sensibly Sinister 2: Righteous and Rich

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_**Disclaimer 1:** I am not a psychologist, nor have I ever studied psychology other than in religious text and my own musings. Make of that what you will._

_**Disclaimer**** 2:**__ I do not harbor, or intend for any of the readers to harbor, the views which any of my designated villains harbor. Neither did Joanne Kathleen Rowling, the originator of the Harry Potter series which perpetrates the greatests of morals. This story is not for children or personalities overly inclined to be shallowly impressionable._

_The point of this story is not for you to believe, invent a religion, or curse the world for being unfair._

_It is to inspire you to think._

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Lucius Malfoy boredly thumbed through his daily barrage of owl post. Bill, bill, bill- he must speak with Narcissa, but she'd likely _somehow_ persuade him that the purchases were necessary. Where was she now, at any rate? Shopping, again? Diagon Alley for the boy's school supplies, perhaps?

A letter from Cornelius Fudge- ah, that warranted some perusal; Lucius placed it in the suspiciously empty _Ministry business_ pile. An anonymous Howler- a quick Avada Kedavra to that and it was quite effectively eliminated- it was a wonder that such a method wasn't more popular! War Displaced Children Orphanage Charity- begging for a piece of his fortune to sponsor some unfortunate army brats? _If they couldn't survive the war for their children, that was their problem_, Lucius sighed apathetically and discarded it.

Then he spied another thick envelope with the Ministry seal. _Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office_. The Malfoy patron scowled immediately. What did Arthur Weasley want _this_ time?

"_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_We have received intelligence that your current residence may contain objects declared controlled substances by the Ministry due to suspected functionality inclined to cause Muggles harm or inconvenience. The severity of this breach of the Muggle Protection Act has resulted in the temporary suspension of monetary and item transfers with your Gringotts account. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to conduct a raid, as defined necessary under clause 9 of the Guidelines for Warranted Searches and Seizures. Please duly prepare for our arrival._

_Hoping you are well._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Arthur Weasley,_

_Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office._"

The nerve! Oh, the nerve of Arthur Weasley, everything he despised. Poor, muggle-loving, ignorant, and with enough power to invent Acts to rival his own...

Lucius distractedly descended the stairs into the foyer. No wonder _Ministry business_ had been unusually want- transfers canceled! Supposedly to keep him from transporting all of his suspicious belongings to a faraway warehouse. And, conveniently for Weasley, the process inhibited his Fudge-bribing abilities for a very short amount of time.

Well, he'd ensure that whichever officials sent would be _very_ apologetic and rueful they were sent. If Arthur Weasley planned to make his job difficult, then why couldn't Lucius his?

How best to go about it? There were, of course, the usual methods of psychological torture and concealment available to him… but they were crude, and meant for urgent, hasty, difficult cases for persuasion. It would be satisfying to render Weasley's workers incapable of further completing such jobs in the future- imagine how frustrating re-staffing an office would be, and what a lasting lesson that'd leave... Or how about… His eyes lit up with this becoming idea. …Lucius could school them with a bit of _his_ ideology.

The man settled himself in a nice sofa. The point of the matter was his superiority over others. There was a simple rule that lent his self license to be proud, to be bigoted, and to be rich- _karma_. He very much enjoyed the saying "my karma ran over my dogma." _(Perhaps he wouldn't have liked it so much if he knew it was a muggle saying... but he didn't know._) Lucius Malfoy's dogma's always came to pass- and thus he was doing something very right indeed. It's very easy to ignore people's claims of immorality and monstrosity knowing two very interesting facts. Firstly, they were people, and not the famed force that had rewarded you for your automatically appropriate actions. And second, if they were not as well-endowed as he (and the only character who had ever been was the Dark Lord before his demise), they were less of people than he was in the first place. Even… even Dumbledore, the old, tired man.

Conversely, the ones who were less fortunate- the dead and the ill, the poor, the elderly, the inconveniently parented- they deserved their pitiful lot in themselves. There is the instinct for self-preservation that karma obviously smiled upon, and that the wisest would value. In the end, the Malfoys understood it best, and Lucius intended to keep it that way. Unfortunately, not for Lucius but for the fools that overran the world, other values made pretty shows and hid that all-important saving grace- instead, Dumbledore prided himself in equality, Fudge in peace, the general Wizarding public in indulgence.

Hm. If those who Arthur Weasley sent to him were any kind of fools- and there was no indicative to the opposite- then so much for that plan.

Threats and torture it was, then.

Wasn't life fair!

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_A/N: Yes, I know the subject matter is very strange and sadistic. But that does make sense, as it is the second in my series of villain psyches.  
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_The unspoken **frightening** message of this is "Life is fair, for the rich." But before you dismiss it, please allow me to further explain... _

_POINT A: Lucius is just wrong, FYI. This takes place at least before GOF on the Harry Potter timeline, so a few things change: 1) Voldemort does come back, and then dies. 2) The Malfoys seriously fall from grace in many ways. They're acquitted, but everyone knows Lucius is a liar and that they were involved closely with the Death Eaters and bribery. So even in Lucius' eyes, his actions are not correct, and karma does not favor him. Furthermore, outside of Lucius' eyes, karma doesn't even work that way._

_POINT B: Lucius' measure of success is entirely materialistic. As I hope you guys know from reading Harry Potter and your own life experiences, there are more important things to it, such as satisfactory happiness, the ever amazing love, etc. Think of some yourself. You get the picture. Therefore, still operating in the existence of Lucius' kind of karma, good people can still get better, more satisfactory lives in themselves.  
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_And if you don't believe in karma, then Lucius' reasoning certainly doesn't have to apply._

_I'd also like to take the time to thank the reviewers of the first installment of the "Sensibly Sinister" series: **crystalline'maia-** thank you for your "brilliant" and your "creepy" and your __"Vawwlldehmorh", **AJ-** thank you for your "devious" and your *unexpected* and your "fine comparisons" and your "unique." I hope you find it convenient to visit my fanfictions again. Your reviews are always nice. **mel-** thank you for your "hot" and your "wonder." Same as AJ- hope you read more!_

_**Thank you for reading, and review!**  
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	3. Anarchy Against Authority

Sensibly Sinister 3: Authority Over Apathy

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_**Disclaimer:**__ The one-shot below went in many directions that I did not foresee upon embarking on the writing of it. Also, there are a LOT of intentional sentence fragments._

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Swung all the way back, it offered no liquid.

The bottle was as empty as her heart was thought to be.

It was funny—and here, she let out a drunken giggle, a ghost of what it used to be – that they would think that. They who claimed to value all persons, regardless of blood and circumstance!

Even_ she_ valued all persons, by their flimsy definition of _intention_! …But never more than that, while _they_ were _so_ oft to misjudge their own compassion.

Well, Merlin be with them, then! Though Merlin was dead, like their Dumbledore and her Fudge… Ha ha ha, and nothing mattered, at least not the Ministry anymore. Just picking up the pieces for the people on top, and being the pieces for those who weren't.

Pieces, pieces, pieces. The bottle, now smashed, was nothing but pieces… Nothing but pieces… and a little drop of amber liquid, wasted on the dusty floor.

"Why, you little _liar_," she said at the deceitful little drop that had refused to neither show itself not to wet her throat when she had so entreated it, though perhaps her voice was blurrier. She didn't remember the day after, so who could say? "One must not tell lies, dearie." She giggled at that, too. What a silly tenet she had had that boy write… But so cute, and so good to torment him with; after all, her true thoughts never sounded very good when said in so many words.

Of course, words were _important_. "Duh!" But as qualities of speech went, truth did not rank high under the criterion of utility, or even persuasiveness. _Sorry Aristotle; little Miss Me wants to deny you your Rhetoric, where you presumed that the truth is naturally more persuasive and from which your assumption broke free to establish juries in the name of that being true. There's only one philosopher for me, I'm afraid, and you just don't cut it_… Even that sounded nasty, nasty, nasty: Something that she could only spit to her enemies, her enemies who would never be believed. Something her beautiful kitties would want to eat quickly to keep it out of their mummy's way.

The beautiful kitties cared about her; the beautiful kitties didn't. How could they, trapped in china circles on the wall? How could they not?

How could she not?

Words were so, so important. There were words that had revolutionized her life, as a magical orphan in a muggle's foster home. They had treated her well, she had treated them well, but the important bit was that they sent her to school, with lots and lots of words of nonmagical peoples who, without any sparks to busy themselves, had nothing more to do than think. There were no English classes for witches and wizards; learn through usage in essays was the idea. Then complain when that begets a generation who can write nothing more compelling or groundbreaking than a report of cauldron-bottoms. Ha! Where is one to find their politicians, then?

_She_ had found her politicians, though. _She_ had read the article that her dearest friend, the mercenary _Daily Prophet_, wrote on her, and perhaps the only flattering pairs of words were her full name and "politically active." She wasn't entirely sure what it meant by that; never had she voted nor endorsed but for the candidate sure to win, after the media had released its crippling blows to his opponent.

The candidate could write. He could speak. But not from any hoity-toity little Professors, no haughty McGonagall, no self-serving Severus Snape! It was _she_ who had tirelessly tutored the Minister Elect in all the ways she knew; in turn, this both effective and ambiguous leader gave her the height that she and her kitties deserved.

_Me, me, me. How my thoughts have run! But don't you understand that it was for _you_? It was all for you._

There was only one of the three ministers who did not require her help, and only her unwavering support, which she had been so accustomed to giving that she performed admirably in this task; though, of course, she never made contact with the _true_ minister himself in that period. Her reputation had preceded her, for she had never faltered in her façade of corroboration for the idiots that she had supported as a wife to her family, a mother to her rampant children.

She had had her reasons. She had her reason, the purpose of a life which she had lived as a life of purpose…

It was so important to have a purpose; an overarching aim. _They_ would never get anywhere with their complicated "moral networks," stringing together arbitrary values for life and love and justice and words that meant _nothing._ She had her "moral network," and it served her well enough: a single thread that caught everything in its path, caught every question with an answer… a thread that saved the world, spun by that dexterous spider. Thomas. Her beloved Hobbes.

The absolute monarch of time, not place… or at least of her…

**"****Hereby it is manifest that during the time men live without a common power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which is called war; and such a war as is of every man against every man."**

As she had read and as it had struck her; those lines of "Part 1: Chapter 13." (Thirteen! What a coincidence of her fortune!) Of the _Leviathan_, the sea beast of anarchy, of man unhindered by man!

**"****To this war of every man against every man, this also in consequent; that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice have there no place. Where there is no common power, there is no law, where no law, no injustice. Force, and fraud, are in war the cardinal virtues.****"**

Cardinals, wielding power in their own right: lust, greed, envy… The drop gleamed like blood, as though it had fallen from the brows of men irreverent of the uncompromising importance of _control_.

She was not so destitute she would lick the impudent little trickle off the ground. There were a few things that Dolores Jane Umbridge did hold dear, and one of them was pride (that cardinal sin!). Condemned to this sorry place of the future and of disdain, she found it as easy as ever to sustain them; just as pureblood supremacists have done little more than change their spots to the changing times. And yet, this time there was less forgiveness. The same sorry song had been sung once before, and now they were just the ugly, sharp, dangerous pieces, the despicable wrinkles on their new perfect Britain.

It had been for the _world_ that she plod on, set in her ways of her way of being set! She would have gladly served the new administration as she had served three previously; keenly aware of power, her blinds on to all else. She was so _neat_. She was so _helpful_. Every day for forty-seven years she had combed her hair, put that pink bow in its place, governed her hygiene in the same manner as she governed her Ministry: careful to conform to social norm. How _good_ she could have been at picking up the pieces and putting them neatly back into their little box.

"**In such condition there is no place for industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."**

So she had done things! She had tried to use Crucio on a student. She had used a position of teaching and trust to foist ignorance. She had condemned people to lives until death drained of hope for reasons that she, frankly, cared nothing for. She had been ensuring the security of government, of order… She was saving the _world_!

Some may say (and _did_ say) that that was not _good_, not _scrupulous_. They even deigned to arrest her for it. From her comfortable, well-liked, admired state of beauty and pristine perfection, she had been wrought to this, in a barren dementor-less cell, waving around delusions of drunkenness to mask the madness she feared. There was no glass on the ground to cut her, no drop to taunt her any more than she had been cut and taunted already.

Yet, it's still better than having to apologize for her actions, because she knows that life is always much more comfortable when you have inflexible _rules_ for defining wrong and right.

And, at the very least, her incarceration was in keeping with the current regime's aims.

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_A/N: Yeah, you might be able to tell that I'm not an enormous fan of dear Thomas Hobbes. ;) Thus, my Umbridge thinks me a fool._

_Wow. I made Umbridge sound crazier than Bellatrix! Well, not that I've ever tried to write Bellatrix, so I guess I don't know the limits of CRAZY that I can express. But as I read over this, Umbridge seemed pretty, uh, unhinged, y'all. ...Just read it over again. Maybe it's not that bad. Uh... You tell me, kay?  
_

_In case it was unclear (and it may have been, because the story developed as I wrote it), basically after the war Umbridge was like, "Soooo… Am I still Senior Undersecretary?" and Kingsley was like "Yeah uh… NO" and then "__She was arrested, interrogated and imprisoned for crimes against Muggleborns__," quoth J. K. Rowling on July 30, 2007. And that's where she is in the one-shot. … And there was no actual bottle of alcohol; it was just in her head. That would be a silly thing to put in a cell. I tried to make that clear, but felt like putting that here just in case. Reason she can't just pretend to be sincerely sorry or Imperius'ed or whatever: A) Harry's smarter than that, and B) they ought to make the accused drink Veritaserum at court cases, and perhaps they do._

_So, what did you think? Review! And now that Umbridge is done, I don't have a lineup of characters to do or anything of the sort. Should I continue with some other baddies, or is it best as a trilogy? Should it be a fake trilogy, like the Inheritance Cycle, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Spiderman? Seriously, Spiderman 4? Sorry, little tangent. Anyway, all suggestions are welcome!_


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